There lay Winata Pakaro, famous fighting Chief,
lips set in a grin of hate. ([page 93]).

IN THE GRIP OF
THE HAWK

A Story of the Maori Wars

BY REGINALD HORSLEY

AUTHOR OF
'STONEWALL'S SCOUT,' 'THE YELLOW GOD,' 'THE BLUE
BALLOON,' 'HUNTED THROUGH FIJI,' ETC.

LONDON: T. C. & E. C. JACK, LTD.
35 & 36 PATERNOSTER ROW, E.C.
AND EDINBURGH

TO
SIR JAMES BALFOUR PAUL, F.S.A. (SCOT.)
Lyon King of Arms
I DEDICATE THIS BOOK
IN MEMORY OF MANY YEARS
OF FRIENDSHIP

PREFATORY NOTE

As the long struggle between Maori and Pakeha dragged to a close, a new interest was given to it by the perversion of numbers of Maoris of various tribes to a singular religion, styled by its founders Pai Marire—that is, 'good and peaceful.'

There was nothing good or peaceful about the new religion, which was a fantastic blend of very elementary Christianity, Judaism and Paganism. Deadly hostility to the Pakeha, or white man, was an all-important item in this curious creed, whose votaries were known as Hau-haus, and prominent amongst its prophets was the rebel chief, Te Kooti, one of the best generals and one of the worst men of his day.

Brave, ferocious and animated by an almost oriental fatalism, the Hau-haus were formidable antagonists and, moreover, shocked even their compatriots by their ruthless savagery. At the very outset they defeated a mixed contingent of the 57th Regiment and Colonials at Taranaki, and cut off the head of Captain Lloyd, who had been killed in action. Lloyd's head, preserved after the Maori fashion, was then carried round from tribe to tribe by two Hau-hau missionaries, who strove to make converts to the new faith. When they succeeded, the head was spiked upon the summit of the niu, or sacred pole, round which the fanatics leaped and danced until they grew frenzied, uttering at frequent intervals their characteristic barking howl, 'Hau-hau! Hau-hau!' which has been described as the most frightful of noises, and a trial to the nerves of the bravest.

While in no sense a history of a particular period of the war, the story is built upon a historical basis. Thus, the imprisonment of Te Kooti on Chatham Island—according to some upon a fabricated charge—his escape thence in a brig, the sacrifice of his aged uncle in order to propitiate the wind-god, his landing near Poverty Bay, the massacre there, the fight at Paparatu and the final storming of a strong pah in which he had taken refuge, are all matters of history. Te Kooti, however, did not massacre the crew of the brig, nor was he slain in battle. Like the yet more infamous Nana Sahib, he escaped to be no more heard of. It is interesting to note that a nephew of Te Kooti appeared a few months ago in New Zealand, threatening to preach a new religion and to bring about the downfall of the Pakeha.

The mere[[1]] (pronounced almost as 'merry') or war-club of the Maoris was in shape something like an old-fashioned soda-water bottle, flattened, and was made of wood, bone, a very hard gray stone, whalebone, jade, or of the valuable mineral, nephrite, more commonly known as 'greenstone,' which is found in the Middle Island. The Maoris regarded the greenstone with superstitious veneration, and in times of danger would sacrifice their ornaments fashioned from it to the particular god whose aid it was desired to invoke. Greenstone clubs were the peculiar possessions of chiefs or very important tribesmen, inferior mortals contenting themselves with those of less costly materials.

[[1]] In Maori every letter is pronounced. Thus: whare, a house = 'wharry,' not 'whar.'

Regarding the particular greenstone club which figures so prominently in the story, it is, perhaps, only fair to admit that it will be useless for readers with archæological tastes to endeavour to verify the tradition of its origin or the sinister prophecy attached to it.

While I took no part in the struggle, I well remember, when a very little boy, adding my small voice to the enthusiastic cheers of the people as first one regiment and, later on, another, marched through the streets of Sydney on their way to embark for New Zealand. When several sizes larger, it was my fortune to see much of the native races of the southern seas—in Maori-land, Fiji, the Loyalty Islands, and elsewhere. Now if I can succeed in interesting my readers by picturing for them some of the scenes which filled my childhood with so much colour and interest and delight, I shall be satisfied.

REGINALD HORSLEY.

CONTENTS

CHAP.

I. [FAMILY JARS]
II. [THE QUEEN'S SHILLING SUNDERS FRIENDS]
III. [THE PRICE OF SUCCESS]
IV. [TE KAREAREA]
V. [THE GRATITUDE OF TE KAIHUIA]
VI. [THE STORY OF THE GREENSTONE MERE]
VII. [STORM SIGNALS]
VIII. [THE STORM BURSTS]
IX. [JUST IN TIME]
X. [TOGETHER AGAIN]
XI. [ONE MYSTERY THE LESS]
XII. [VANISHED]
XIII. [DOWN AMONG THE DEAD MEN]
XIV. [MAGIC, BLACK AND WHITE]
XV. [POKEKE, THE SULLEN ONE]
XVI. [SPLENDIDE MENDAX]
XVII. [SAFE BIND, SAFE FIND]
XVIII. [PAEROA AT LAST]
XIX. [PAEROA'S VENGEANCE]
XX. [A BID FOR LIBERTY]
XXI. [IN THE FLAX SWAMP]
XXII. [THE DOOM OF THE HOUSE OF TE TURI]

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

[ There lay Winata Pakaro, famous fighting chief, his lips set in a grin of hate] ... Frontispiece

[
Captain Varsall was seen to flee at top speed towards the beach]

[
George turned from the mate to find Te Karearea at his elbow]

[
In another moment Terence's wrists were free and the rifle in his grasp]

[
The tunnel took a turn, widening into a cave]

[
Map of the Pah of Death and its surroundings]

IN THE GRIP OF THE HAWK

CHAPTER I
FAMILY JARS

The long-drawn, melancholy wail of the curlew rose and fell thrice in the garden, and Terence Moore went to the window and looked out into the clear moonlight.

'Is that you, George?' he hailed.

'Yes. Come out quietly; I want to talk to you.'

Terence hung by his hands from the sill and dropped to the ground beside his visitor. 'What is the matter, George?' he inquired anxiously. 'Why won't you come in?'

'Because I wish to see you alone, and I don't want any one to know that I am here. You may as well hear it first as last, old fellow—I have left home.'

'I am not surprised. My only wonder is that you have stayed there so long,' Terence commented, lifting his tip-tilted nose still higher.

'Things have come to a head, you see,' explained George Haughton. 'The colonel struck me this evening, and though, of course, I don't mind that, yet I can't stand any longer the sort of life I have been forced to lead for the past year or two.'

'I am not surprised,' repeated Terence. 'Few fellows would have been as patient, I think. Wait a moment and I'll get my hat.'

He was back again almost immediately, and, linking arms with George, drew him round the house to the front gate.

These two had been friends from earliest childhood, though both in appearance and disposition they differed remarkably from one another. George Haughton, tall and commanding, finely made, with well-knit, muscular frame, fair, curling hair, and Saxon-blue eyes, was the very type of a healthy young Englishman. The other, Terence Moore, was blue-eyed also; but his shock of red hair, his densely freckled skin, the tilt of his nose, and his wide smiling mouth as plainly betrayed his Irish origin as did his name. He was much shorter than George, but his broad shoulders and extraordinary length of arm amply atoned for any deficiency in the matter of inches.

Terence was a bushman to his finger-tips, and once had been heir to a fine estate, but on the death of his father, two years before the opening of this story, he had been left penniless. Mrs. Moore had died when her boy was but an infant, and so it happened that the lad lost parent, money and home at one stroke, for the creditors seized his father's station, along with everything upon it which could be turned into cash.

Young Moore, then only eighteen, had not money enough to take up land and develop a new station, and though his dear friends, the Haughtons, would have helped him to any extent, he was too proud to become dependent, even upon them. So he started driving fat cattle from one part of the country to another, an occupation at once profitable and healthy. In the intervals of work he stayed in Sydney with his mother's sister; and thus securing the companionship of George Haughton, proceeded to make the latter still more discontented with his lot, by pouring into his ear all the moving incidents by flood and field which fall to the share of the gentleman-drover.

To this sympathetic friend did George now confide the tale of the crisis of his long dispute with his father, to which Terence, anxious to secure a congenial companion during his long rides through the bush, replied by an earnest appeal to George to throw in his lot with his own.

As a matter of fact, there had been a terrible scene at 'Sobraon.' For two years Colonel Haughton had fumed and fretted at his son's evident disinclination to follow the path marked out for him, and to-day a climax had been reached. The colonel, enraged at George's invincible opposition, had lost command of himself and struck his son; and the way in which it all came about was this:

After the famous battle of Sobraon, in which he was severely wounded, Colonel Haughton had retired from the army and bought a beautiful property on the wooded heights of one of the tiny bays which break the noble outline of Sydney Harbour. Here he had settled with his wife and his son, George, then a burly little fellow of three, whose obvious destiny was the army, in which his father had served with such distinction. But after the lad's tenth birthday the colonel's views underwent a change, and it was decided to send the youngster into the bush, so that he might grow familiar with station life, and in due course become capable of managing the fine run which his father intended to purchase for him.

This was much more to George's taste than school, and six months with his father's old friend, Major Moore, went far towards making a thorough little bushman of him. Terence and he were already chums, and the constant association which continued during their youth cemented a friendship which endured throughout their lives.

The colonel's 'system,' thus inaugurated, was further developed by a visit to New Zealand, where George's uncle, Captain Haughton, R.N., retired, had settled some years before. Thereafter Colonel Haughton divided each successive year into four parts, every three months of study alternating with a like period in the bush, either with Major Moore in New South Wales, or with Captain Haughton in New Zealand, as the turn of each came round.

Brain and body developed most satisfactorily under this system, and, as a natural consequence of so much healthy outdoor life, George at nineteen was as sturdy and well-developed a youngster as could be found, while in height he already over-topped his father, who stood five feet eleven outside his boots. The boy's future seemed splendidly assured, when a season of drought, common enough in Australia, frightened the colonel, and, after much deliberation, he astounded everybody by declaring his intention to launch his son in business.

But here he reckoned without George, for nothing less suited to the lad's disposition, tastes or early training could have been hit upon, and the one thing which kept him from open rebellion was his desire not to give pain to his mother. But when, quite suddenly, Mrs. Haughton died, George, who had been devoted to her—though he had a great admiration and love for his father, too—determined to resist the proposed change with all his might.

He said little, however, until his twentieth birthday was passed, though his attitude was always one of firm, respectful opposition; and then at last the crisis came, and the blow struck by the hasty-tempered father in support of his authority broke down the last lingering scruple on the part of his son. It is difficult, all facts considered, to blame George too severely, even if his conduct in taking the law into his own hands cannot be entirely excused.

'You can't do better than come with me, George,' urged the wily Terence, when George had told him of the tempestuous scene at 'Sobraon,' as Colonel Haughton had named his house. 'You can't do better,' he repeated; 'that is, if you have made up your mind not to return home.'

'That is decided,' said George. 'To go back would only mean further hopeless bickering with my father, and I don't want to run any risks.'

'Then that is settled. You will have to lie low for a week or so until I am on the move again; but you can write to your father and let him know that you are safe. I dare say he will come round as soon as he sees that you are really in earnest. He is a good sort, is the colonel,' wound up Terence, with a grin at the recollection of a sound thrashing his old friend had once given him.

'He is, I admit,' granted the colonel's wayward son. 'All the same, he won't come round easily. He would wear out my will by sheer persistence and get his own way if I remained in the house. My only safety lies in flight.'

'I believe you. And you will fly with me to the bush.'

'No, Terence; I have another plan.' And straightway George delivered himself of a statement which astonished his voluble friend into something like absolute silence. But this did not last very long. For a few moments Terence remained pensive, his thoughts evidently far away; then, as they turned to take the homeward road he astonished George in his turn by cutting a caper in the middle of the street.

'Hurroo!' he cried, relapsing into the rich brogue he could assume at pleasure, and poured out a torrent of strange sounds, which George declared to be gibberish, but which Terence insisted were 'the rale Oirish for unbounded deloight.'

'But what is the matter with you?' George asked helplessly at last. 'Why should you behave like a lunatic because I am going away?'

'Because we are going, if you please,' corrected Terence, suddenly serious.

George stared at him. 'You don't mean that you are coming, too?'

'An' why wouldn't I? Do you think I'll allow a great baby like you to go off alone among all those murtherin' ruffians? Yes,' he concluded, with a mock salute, 'with your leave, or without your leave, I'm going with you.'

'But—but——' began George in stammering protest.

'No buts, old fellow. I am going with you,' declared Terence; 'so there is no more to be said.'

'But your prospects?' objected George.

'Oh yes, my prospects. Fine, aren't they? I shall have quite as good a chance of getting on in the world—and a better—by going with you, as I shall by jogging peacefully behind a lot of fat cattle. Besides, we are not going away for ever, I hope; and I know plenty of people who will be only too glad to get me to drive their beasts, no matter how long I may stay away. So say no more about it; the thing is settled.'

'You are a good friend, Terence,' said George, with some emotion, and the two linked arms once more and set off in the direction of Woolloomooloo, where Terence resided when in town.

* * * * * *

Midnight! The solemn strokes of some big clock in the city boomed over the quiet waters of the bay, and the two soldierly old men who were standing on the little jetty at the foot of the garden at 'Sobraon' turned rather helplessly towards one another.

'We may as well go in, Charles,' said the elder, who was Colonel Haughton's brother-in-law, General Cantor. He will not return to-night, I feel sure.' To himself he added: 'I don't believe he means to return at all, poor lad.' For General Cantor had been to a large extent in his nephew's confidence, and had long ago made up his mind that George would one day end the constant friction by a sudden snapping of home ties.

'I dare say you are right, William,' the colonel answered, too depressed to argue; 'yet he often pulls home across the bay at night. Well, well; I have been a tyrant and a fool. I see that {missing words} pray God not too late.' There was a {missing words} voice, and he turned about to cast one more look over the shimmering sea. 'God bless the boy, wherever he is, whatever he does,' he murmured, and, leaning heavily upon his upright little brother-in-law, went back to the house.

There they wished one another good-night rather tremulously; but the colonel set the French-window of his son's room ajar, and with a prayer in his sorrowful heart for the absent lad went thoughtfully to bed.

The first streak of morning found him again in George's room, looking eagerly for some sign of his presence. George was not there, but the window had been shut, and a letter lay conspicuously upon a table. The colonel caught it up and tore it open with trembling fingers. A glance gave him a grasp of the contents, and with a bitter cry he flung himself upon his knees by the empty bed and poured out his heart in prayer that no harm might come to the son whom he loved so well and had used so hardly.

The letter ran:

'MY DEAR FATHER,—I think that it is wiser for me to leave home for a time and strike out a line for myself. It grieves me to oppose you, but, as I feel myself to be utterly unfitted for a commercial life, there is nothing else to be done. We used to be such (missing words} and we have neither of us been very happy since mother died. Don't imagine that I am going away because of our little breeze to-day. I have not thought of that again. Really, I have not. I shall write as soon as I have settled to the work I have chosen, and will keep you posted as to my movements. Good-bye, my dear old dad. My love to Uncle William; and you may both of you be sure that I shall try and remember your teaching and his and keep straight. I am afraid you will say that I am making a crooked beginning; but, father, in this matter I can't obey you. I can't indeed. Good-bye again. Try to remember me as your affectionate son,

GEORGE.'

And this was almost the last that Colonel Haughton heard of his son for many a day.

CHAPTER II
THE QUEEN'S SHILLING SUNDERS FRIENDS

Down the South Head Road, down the long, narrow length of George Street, headed by its splendid band, swept the famous regiment, a glittering streak of scarlet and steel; and all the way from Paddington Barracks to the great wharf at the Circular Quay, where lay the waiting transport, the people cheered themselves hoarse, waving banners and scattering flowers under the marching feet. For the gallant 600th were going to New Zealand—going to the war.

Everywhere was orderly bustle as the men embarked, and no one found time to heed the behaviour of two young civilians, who had managed to get on board, and who at once made a hurried descent into the darkest corner of the forehatch; nor did they emerge even when the noisy bell clanged out a warning to those who belonged to the shore to make all haste and get there.

The transport, led by a proud little tug, was passing Farm Cove, the beautiful anchorage for ships of the naval squadron, which fronts the ornamental grounds of Government House, when the disciplined quiet of the frigate was disturbed by an outcry in the neighbourhood of the fo'c'sle, and Sergeant-major Horn, hurrying to ascertain the cause, was met, to his great surprise, by a couple of his men, who haled between them a pair of dishevelled youths.

'Silence, you there!' commanded the sergeant-major sternly. Then to George and Terence—for they, indeed, were the stowaways: 'What's the meaning of this? Who are you? Where do you come from? What brought you here?' His quick eye at once discerned that the young men he addressed were not of the same class as those who detained them.

George had not reckoned upon being compelled to make a public declaration. He had looked for a quiet word with the sergeant-major, whom he hoped to win to his side. Consequently, he was for a moment at a loss; but, while he was framing a reply, Terence, with a comical glance at the men, struck in, employing his richest brogue.

'Aw! Sargint, darlin', listen to me, now. We're gintlemin out av work. We've come out of two dir-r-rty barr'ls in the forehatch. We wor brought here be the boys in rid. And as to the manin' av ut all, why, I'll tell ye that, too, so I will; but only in your own ear, me jool.'

'None of your impudence, now,' quoth Horn darkly, and scowled at the men, who were grinning broadly at Terence's absurd appearance. For his shock of red hair was more tousled than ever, and the assumed simplicity of his expression would, according to one of the men, have made a cat laugh.

'Luk at that, now!' cried Terence, deftly shifting the burden of reproof from his own shoulders. 'B'ys, I wonder at ye, so I do, laughin' at your shuparior offisher an' all'; which was too much for the men, who sent back a storm of chaff.

'Silence!' roared Horn, 'Now then, you two, give an account of yourselves, or over the side you go.'

Terence had no intention of allowing his sense of fun to spoil their chance, so he shot a look at George, who replied quietly: 'We came on board, hoping that you would see your way to enlist us in the regiment.'

'Oh! I thought you might be trying to snatch a passage to New Zealand,' returned Horn, inwardly admiring the splendid physique of the speaker, with whose features he was vaguely familiar. 'If to enlist is your game, why didn't you come up to the barracks yesterday, instead of sneaking on board like this?'

The pair flushed at this offensive way of putting it; but George could hardly admit that they had avoided the barracks for fear of being recognised, since many of the officers were personal friends of his father and himself, and all were on visiting terms at his home. So he replied simply: 'The truth is, it was quite impossible for us to enlist yesterday.'

Horn was puzzled. The couple in front of him were fine specimens of physical manhood, but what they asked for smacked strongly of irregularity. Besides, they might have been up to some mischief, and he did not wish to incur a responsibility which might get him into more or less serious trouble. But he wanted these two likely fellows; so he determined to speak to the adjutant about them.

But George read his thoughts, and, unobtrusively slipping a sovereign into his hand, said in a low voice: 'Don't report the matter just yet, Sergeant-major. We don't want to run any risk of being stopped.'

Horn took another good look at them as he deftly pouched the gold. 'No,' said he; 'I don't believe that either of you would play a dirty trick. I'll chance it, though I expect there'll be a row. Line up here.'

George was radiant. He shook Terence heartily by the hand, and in so doing shifted his position so as to bring his friend opposite to the sergeant-major, who very naturally addressed him first, putting several questions to him, all of which Terence answered in his own humorous fashion.

'I'll get even with you presently, my fine fellow,' said Horn dryly, and finally inquired: 'Do you join of your own free will, being sober, and not under compulsion?'

'Sober!' echoed Terence, to the huge delight of his audience. 'Why, I'm as dhry as a cow widout a calf; and as to compulsion—

'None of your lip,' cut in Horn, handing him a shilling with the verbal bonus: 'And now look here, young shaver, if I have any more of your cheek, you'll begin your military career in the punishment cells on bread and water. So now you know.'

The look which accompanied these harsh-sounding words was genial enough, and Terence had the wit to understand the hint conveyed, namely, that he now belonged to a disciplined body, whose dealings with their superiors were very nicely regulated.

'Now then, you,' said Horn to George. 'What's your name?'

Confident that before he had been many hours a soldier some of the officers would be sure to recognise him, George thought it useless to assume a nom de guerre. So he answered in a clear voice, 'George Haughton.'

'George Haughton!' sounded like an echo behind him. 'So it is! And what brings you here, George?'

And at the sound of that too-familiar voice, which he recognised as that of his father's old friend, Colonel Cranstoun, commanding the 600th, George realised with bitter disappointment that his chance of taking the Queen's shilling that day was as good as gone.

Colonel Cranstoun had watched the scene on the foredeck under the impression that the sergeant-major was interrogating a couple of stowaways, but when he saw the pair line up, he suspected some irregularity, and hastened to investigate the matter. He was short-sighted, so that it was not until he neared the group that he was struck by something familiar in the appearance of the two young men; but, as he came up behind them, it was only when he heard George's name that he realised, to his unbounded surprise, that the would-be recruit was the son of his old friend and sword-brother, Colonel Haughton.

'What on earth are you doing here, George?' repeated the amazed chief, as the men fell back respectfully.

'I was just going to enlist, sir,' George answered quietly, though inwardly he was raging.

'Oh! Were you indeed?' said Colonel Cranstoun dryly. 'And Mr. Moore? Does he, too, wish to enlist?'

'Begging your pardon, sir,' put in Horn, saluting, 'he has this moment enlisted.'

Colonel Cranstoun looked deeply annoyed. 'Who authorised you to turn the fore-deck into a recruiting depot?' he demanded sternly of Horn, who cast an imploring look at George.

'It was my fault, Colonel,' interposed George at once, adding naïvely, 'I was afraid that if you knew you would prevent us.'

Under pretence of giving his moustache a twist, Colonel Cranstoun hid a smile behind his hand. 'Follow me to my cabin, George,' he said, and, curtly returning the dejected Horn's salute, walked off, followed by George, who felt decidedly cheap.

Terence, left behind, looked after his friend with an air of comical resignation, and inquired of the sergeant-major in a dolorous whine: 'Aw, sergeant dear, can I offer you a guinea to take back the shilling I had of you just now?'

'Oh, dry up!' snapped the disgusted Horn. 'Why couldn't you say you knew the colonel? I'll get my head blown off. But how was I to know? You're booked anyhow,' he wound up, with a snarl.

'Faith, 'tis cooked as well as booked I am,' sighed Terence. 'He'll never let George enlist, and then what will I do at all, at all?'

'Take him out of this!' vociferated Horn. 'No; let him stay. The colonel may want him when he's done with that other lump of mischief.' He stalked off in high dudgeon.

Meantime Colonel Cranstoun had shut himself in his cabin with George. 'Tell me the meaning of all this, my boy,' he said kindly. 'Is it a case of bolt?'

George nodded gloomily; then burst out with impetuous pleading: 'Don't ask me to go back, Colonel Cranstoun, for I can't and I won't.'

'Let me hear your story,' said the colonel; and as briefly as possible George gave him the details of his difference with his father. When he had finished, Colonel Cranstoun laid a hand upon his shoulder.

'It must be clear to you, George, that I cannot countenance this escapade. What should I say to my old friend—if we ever meet again—were I to allow his son to do a foolish thing, and put forth no hand to save him from his folly?'

One glance at the fine, inflexible face told George that pleading would be thrown away; so he said as quietly as he could: 'Very good, sir. I would rather serve under you than under any one; but since you won't have me, I shall enlist as soon as we reach New Zealand.'

'You are not going there in this ship,' the colonel said curtly.

This was a facer, and George caught his breath. He had reckoned without his host. He had a sickening sense of what was coming.

'Now, George, you know your duty as well as I do,' went on the colonel. 'Make your father understand that you can't adopt the—er—profession he has in view for you—I don't blame you for that; quite the contrary—but don't try to persuade yourself that you are doing anything heroic in running away from home like a schoolboy.'

'Well, sir,' answered George in his quietest manner, 'if I can't go in this ship, I will in another.'

Colonel Cranstoun's gesture indicated impatience. 'I must inspect the men before we pass the Heads,' he said. 'Listen to me, George. I am going to send you back in the tug; but I want you to promise me that when you reach Sydney you will go straight home.'

'No, sir; I will make no such promise.'

The colonel's temper departed with startling suddenness. 'You obstinate young dog!' he roared. 'I don't wonder your father thrashed you. Give me your promise, or I'll have you clapped in irons and handed over to the master of the tug.'

'I shall make no promise, whatever you do,' retorted George.

'Then make none, and be hanged to you!' snapped the colonel. 'I shall know how to deal with you. Dash it, sir! don't imagine that you can play fast and loose with me.'

He flung out of the cabin in a royal rage; but George was at the door before he could close it. 'What about Terence, sir? He only enlisted because he believed that I should do so, too—as I most certainly should have done, had not you, unfortunately, put in an appearance when you were least wanted.'

The remark was unfortunate, at all events, and there was a wicked gleam in the colonel's eye as he said relentlessly: 'Your friend has taken the Queen's shilling, sir, and I shall make it my business to see that Her Majesty gets value for her money. I'll not interfere.'

He did not tell George that, owing to the irregularity of the whole proceeding, he could, as colonel, have quashed the enlistment with a word. 'Besides,' he went on, 'I suspect that young Moore has been leading you into mischief, and I dare say your father will thank me for taking him out of your way for a time. What, sir? Not a word! No; I'll not hear another word.'

'Yes; you shall hear just one,' cried George, now in a rage on his part. 'It is most unjust of you to revenge yourself upon my innocent friend, and to accuse him in this monstrous fashion because I won't give in to you. But whatever you do'—he laughed defiantly—'I'll get to New Zealand in spite of you.'

The colonel glared at him; but George met him eye to eye, and presently, age and experience gaining the upper hand, Colonel Cranstoun marched out of the cabin with a dignity which somehow made George feel small. In a quarter of an hour he was back again, saying, as if nothing had happened: 'The tug is ready, George. I take it that you will give me the promise I asked for.'

'No, sir; I can't do that,' George answered respectfully; 'but I beg your pardon for the manner in which I spoke to you just now.' Then he fell in behind the colonel and marched to the side, where he found that the old warrior had so far relented as to allow Terence to stand by to bid him adieu. Some of the men giggled, but most of them looked sorry for him, and his friends among the officers nodded sympathetically as he passed them.

Silently the friends clasped hands, and George said in low tones: 'Keep a bright look-out for me, Terence; I shall not be long in following you.'

Colonel Cranstoun overheard the remark as he came up with outstretched hand; but he merely smiled and said: 'Good-bye, George. Don't bear malice. I am only doing my duty, you know.'

George shook hands cordially enough with him, and with another grip of his chum's hard fist jumped aboard the tug, which immediately cast off. For some time young Haughton watched his friend, who had climbed into the rigging and was waving frantically; but when the frigate came up to the wind and Terence was no longer visible, he flung himself down upon a coil of rope and bitterly reviled his own hard lot.

Presently he rose again and gazed seawards over the heaving Pacific. The fine frigate, under a cloud of canvas, was already far distant. With longing eyes George looked after her, and, as she skimmed away upon the starboard tack, leaned over the taffrail and gave himself up to gloomy meditation.

The rough-and-tumble motion of the tug suited the turbulent thoughts which filled George's mind, but as the little vessel passed back through the Heads and came suddenly to an even keel, as suddenly did the unwilling passenger realise that, while every moment was bearing Terence nearer to the goal of their hopes, he himself, balked and trapped, was being sent ignominiously home like a bale of damaged goods.

He turned and began to pace the deck with quick, decided steps. He would not, he could not, go home. On that point he was determined. Right or wrong, he had made his choice and would abide by it. Besides, there was Terence to be thought of; Terence, who so willingly had sacrificed a paying occupation to follow the fortunes of his friend, and who now was left in the lurch by this unkind trick of fate. No; by hook or by crook he must get to New Zealand. But how? There was the rub.

'What ship is that?' he asked a sailor, pointing to a smart brig anchored about half a mile from the quay, and flying the 'Blue Peter.'

'The Stella, sir,' the man answered, 'and a handy craft she is. She sails at six o'clock to-morrow morning for Chatham Island, with stores for the prisoners there.'

George's heart gave a great leap, and the sailor, greatly to his surprise, received half a crown for this very trifling piece of information. But it was by no means trifling to George, whose despondency evaporated like dew in the sunshine, as he told himself that, come what might in the way of opposition, he would sail in that brig and somehow reach New Zealand. For in the Chatham Islands, some three hundred miles east of their coast, the New Zealand Government had established a penal settlement for Maoris, at which ships occasionally called with provisions and other necessaries. And of this fortunate circumstance George then and there made up his mind to take the fullest advantage.

The skipper of the tug had received a sovereign from Colonel Cranstoun as passage money for 'the young gentleman,' and fully expected to receive another from Colonel Haughton on delivering the said young gentleman in good order at his own front door. But this money was never earned, for it cost George but little effort to evade the clumsy seaman, and, as soon as the tug touched the quay, he leaped ashore and ran for his liberty.

Once out of sight he defied capture, though no attempt was made to take him, and, having written his father a letter, in which he described his adventure and stated his intentions, he returned to the quay after nightfall, hired a dingy, and pulled out to the brig, where he had a satisfactory interview with her skipper.

The outcome of this was an arrangement whereby George was to help as far as he could on the voyage to Chatham Island, to pay the cost of his food, and to give the skipper a bonus of two pounds. In return he was to receive a free passage to whatever New Zealand port the brig should first touch at on her return voyage. The agreement made, George and the skipper shook hands heartily with mutual esteem, each complimenting himself upon his shrewdness in driving an excellent bargain.

And so George fulfilled his promise to Terence that he would not be long in following him; though, little as he expected it, he was destined to meet with some strange adventures before he once again clasped hands with his friend.

CHAPTER III
THE PRICE OF SUCCESS

It was a lovely evening; lovely as evening can be in the isle-strewn, iridescent seas beneath the Southern Cross. The sun, setting behind the ship which came sailing out of the radiant west, threw his magic mantle over the rolling clouds which lay in inky masses where the ocean touched them in the distant east, filling their hollows with crimson, fringing their pinnacles and battlements with ruddy gold. Fronting the dreamy horizon, Wari-Kauri, Rangi-Haute, and Rangatira[[1]] slumbered peacefully in the rosy light, while great Te Wenga's gloomy bosom caught and kept the fire-tipped shafts. Northwards, the uprising cones of basalt reflected the flames in the sky. Southwards, green-black forest and fern-grown gully blazed for a moment ere they paled away in the dusk. Ahead, the surges, fearful of the night, curled and broke with ceaseless thunder upon the reefs, flinging high their snowy crests to snatch yet one more glory from the day, and falling back, a shower of jewels of ineffable hues. Astern, as if to guide the gliding ship, long paths of crimson light streamed from the sinking sun, and shot aslant in wavering lines from sky to sea, from sea to shore. And as the Stella slipped to her moorings, the rattle of the chain, the splash of the falling anchor, broke in upon the sweet peace; day, affrighted, fled with the sun, and night, fearing no terrors, brooded upon sea and land.

[[1]] The Chatham Islands, a group lying some 300 miles east of New Zealand. Wari-Kauri is Chatham Island proper.

As the Stella neared the shore, a boat, manned by Maori prisoners, put off to give what help might be required. In the stern sat a man who instantly attracted George's attention, and, curiously enough, the young Englishman seemed at the same moment to become the object of profound interest on the part of the Maori, who stared at him as if fascinated.

George had seen many Maoris and admired them; but this one attracted him strangely, and, certainly, no one looking at the man would have taken him for a convict. His face was handsome, notwithstanding the intricate designs carved upon it from brow to chin; his eyes bright, and so restless that they conveyed the impression of incessantly shooting points of light. His figure was strong, though not massive, and much more symmetrical than is usual among his countrymen, who are generally short legged and long-bodied.

Altogether he was a remarkable man, and he moved among his companions with a stateliness and an air of condescension which, but for his impressive appearance, would have seemed ludicrously incongruous. As his furtive brown eyes, glancing this way and that, encountered those of George, frankly full of interest and admiration, they fell for an instant, and then, seeing that the Englishman was about to advance and speak to him, he clambered hastily over the side and dropped back into the boat.

'That is an uncommonly fine-looking fellow,' thought George. 'I wonder what he has done to be cooped up along with those evil-faced rascals. Not that his own expression is particularly engaging; but he has not the cut of a convict. And what a figure! I should like to see more of him.'

It is sometimes unwise to express a wish without previous consideration, and had George dreamed that he was to be taken at his word, or even faintly imagined how much more he was to see of this splendid Maori before all was done, he would have borrowed the wishing-cap once more, and had himself carried back to Sydney without delay.

But George was troubled with no sinister anticipations, and he was up and on deck betimes next morning, for there was much to be done, and he was not one to shirk that part of his contract which included hard work. The men had quickly discovered this, and, in consequence, every one on board liked him, while George, on his side, liked every one. He gave himself no airs, being sure of his own position, but respected himself and others, and did loyally what he had agreed to do. As a natural result he gained the respect and goodwill of those with whom he was associated.

The day dawned in all the lovely colours of the tropics, and the scene upon which George gazed was but a more radiant rendering of the exquisite picture of the previous evening. Bustle already reigned upon deck, and the captain's gig floated gently upon the ingoing tide, ready to bear the skipper ashore. On the island all was quiet to the eye, and apparently the inhabitants had not yet risen, for not a soul was to be seen.

With a cheery 'Good-morning, Mr. Haughton. I'll be back in an hour,' Captain Varsall set off for the shore, and George went to work with a will, bending his strong back over the cases in the hold and arranging a number of iron rods for easier stowage in the boats.

So absorbed was he in what had to be done, that his thoughts were wholly diverted from the shore until, half an hour or so after the departure of the gig, he was startled to hear the sharp smack of a rifle, fired not far away. He left his work, and hurried to the side of the ship, an example which was followed by most of the crew.

A singular sight met their eyes. A boat-load of Maoris was being pulled with frantic haste towards the brig, while on the island men and women, brown and white, were running wildly and, it seemed, aimlessly in all directions. Shots, too, became frequent, though neither their source nor result could be distinguished, since they were fired somewhere behind the houses. Then, while the watchers wondered, Captain Varsall was seen to run headlong out of the Residency, turn and discharge his revolver thrice in quick succession, and flee at top speed towards the beach. All at once he stopped, threw his arms above his head, and, just as a puff of smoke curled lightly upwards from one of the windows, fell face down upon the sand, and lay still, with arms outstretched.

Captain Varsall was seen to flee at top speed towards the beach (page 28).

But there was scant time to lament the captain's fate, for a crowd of brown men clambered over the rail and dropped upon the deck before George could move from the spot whence he gazed, fascinated, at the vivid picture of life and death. Then, even as he turned, a deep musical voice at his side exclaimed: 'Move an inch, young Pakeha,[[2]] and you shall walk swiftly to Reinga.[[3]]

[[2]] White man.

[[3]] The abode of departed spirits.

George possessed a good working knowledge of the Maori tongue; but it needed no linguist to interpret the significance of a gun, held in powerful hands and presented at his head; nor was it less obvious that a rising of the convicts had taken place with complete success for the mutineers. Resistance was out of the question, for another lot of Maoris boarded the brig, and ere the bewildered remnant of the crew had fairly grasped the fact that they were attacked, they were roughly bundled into the hold and the hatches battened down.

George wondered why he had not been served similarly; but he was evidently reserved for more distinguished treatment, for his guard, motioning towards the deck-house, said: 'Let the young Pakeha go in there, into the little whare (house) that sits upon the bosom of the ship.'

'Ka pai!' (Good!) returned George, and the fierce brown face lightened for an instant at the sound of the Maori speech in the mouth of the handsome young Pakeha.

'Haere ra!'[[4]] exclaimed the Maori, grinning and using the native form of salutation to a departing guest; and 'Au haere!'[[5]] answered George, feeling pleasantly satisfied that no harm was intended him, in the first instance at all events.

[[4]] Literally, 'Go truly.'

[[5]] 'I go,' i.e. 'Good-bye.'

'This is a sudden change,' thought the young man, as he looked through a little window at the shore. 'The poor skipper is done for; he has not moved since he fell. There's that tall fellow who was aboard yesterday. He is making for the beach. Now for developments. I suspect that he is at the bottom of this wretched business.'

As he watched, boat-load after boat-load of Maoris put off from the shore, their embarkation being directed by the tall, dignified man with whom George had been so struck the day before. As each boat reached the brig, it emptied itself of its passengers and stores, and returned for more, so that in no very long time all the quondam prisoners, to the number of about two hundred, were transferred to the ship.

Presently the last of the boats left the beach, bringing the tall Maori and such of his associates as had been employed to guard the Residency and other houses, as well as the two sailors who had rowed the unfortunate skipper ashore. A short interval followed, and then, amid the most lively demonstrations of welcome and respect, the organiser of the revolt boarded the brig, and stood looking about him with the proud air of a conqueror.

With a few curt words he dismissed the fawning crowd, and after a thorough examination of the brig and her cargo, returned to the deck-house. A whisper sent the guard out of earshot, and a moment later George found himself in the presence of the man who was destined ere long to prove himself a mighty warrior, and to incur the bitter hatred and execration of every colonist in New Zealand.

CHAPTER IV
TE KAREAREA[[1]]

[[1]] The Sparrow-Hawk.

As Englishman and Maori faced one another, they afforded admirable examples of opposite types. The one tall and superbly moulded, fair-haired and blue-eyed, and with winning frankness and generous high-mindedness in every line of his well-cut features; the other not quite so tall, but equally well made, with coal-black hair, furtive brown eyes, and an expression indicative of courage and intelligence, but also of a high degree of cunning.

'Salutations to you, O friend!' began the Maori in his own language. 'How are you called? I am Te Karearea. It seems you speak with the tongue of the Maori.'

'To you also salutations, O chief!' returned George. 'I am called Hortoni.' He gave his name according to Maori pronunciation, adding: 'I would rather that you spoke the speech of the Pakeha, for it is long since I was in the land of the Maori, and I have forgotten much.'

Te Karearea took no notice of this appeal. 'There are some things it is wiser to forget,' he said sententiously, with a backward glance at the shore. 'Let us forget that I have been a—what I have been. It is better to remember only that I am Te Karearea, an Ariki.'[[2]]

[[2]] A chief of the highest class.

'I will remember, O swift-flying, quick-striking one!' replied George, with a slight inclination.

This allusion to the significance of his name pleased the chief, whose fierce features relaxed in a smile. 'It is good,' he said. 'Fear nought, Hortoni; I mean you no evil. No one shall suffer at my hands.'

'Yet the captain of the brig lies dead upon the sand,' observed George, with less than his usual tact.

'He was a fool,' answered Te Karearea, with darkening brow. 'He resisted, and my young men slew him.' He studied George intently for a moment, and resumed: 'They who are wise will not walk to Reinga. You, for instance, Hortoni, would rather that they should carry you there. Is it not so, my friend?'[[3]]

[[3]] By one familiar with Maori metaphor this would be understood to mean that a man would prefer to await death in the natural course of events, rather than anticipate it by resistance.

George gravely inclined his head.

'Then hear the word of Te Karearea,' pursued the chief. 'Can I not swallow the Pakehas on this ship as the inrushing tide swallows the beach? Can I not slay or spare, according to my will?' There was a deep, booming note in his voice, as of distant thunder, threatening a storm, and he paused, glaring at George, who held his respectful attitude, not being a fool, as Te Karearea had admitted.

'I hate the Pakehas, though there are some whom I am able to esteem,' went on the chief, accompanying the softening clause with a sly smile in the direction of the listener. 'Yet, though I hate, I can be merciful. I can spare as well as slay. Is it not so, O Hortoni?'

Still George only bowed acquiescence, wondering what the chief would be at. He knew perfectly well that all this circumlocution meant that the chief wanted something of him, but what it was he could not imagine. So he tried the effect of a direct question: 'What are you going to do with us?'

But the wily Maori was not to be caught. 'Time will show, Hortoni,' he replied. 'At present I say nought.'

'To what end all this talk then, O Chief? Are we not as rats in a trap? Why should the hawk converse with the rat, if not to devour him? Will you then spare the lives of the rats in the hold?'

'What is all this talk of taking life?' the Maori demanded. 'Behold, they who speak of Reinga are on the road to Reinga. You are young and strong. I set you over the Pakehas. It is the desire of Te Karearea to set them free, and to that end let them bring the ship to Turanga and go. Do they wish to be turned loose in the water?' he finished with a sinister grin, and stalked out.

It was out at last—the end of this roundabout parleying was in view. Not for nothing had Te Karearea spared the lives of the sailors. Without the crew the ship would have been of little use to him; but by sparing the men he would be enabled to reach New Zealand as speedily as the brig could sail thither. Otherwise, at the mercy of the winds and waves, he might be months in completing the voyage—if, indeed, it ever were completed.

'So that is his little game,' thought George. 'He offers us our lives to bring him and his brother rascals to New Zealand. I must see the mate and talk it over with him. I can't decide upon my own responsibility."

At this moment the door opened and the mate was ushered in.

'Well now, Mr. 'Aughton, this 'ere's a rummy go, and no mistake,' he began. 'And the poor skipper gone, too. I saw it all, Mr. 'Aughton, as you may say, and——'

But George had had too much experience of the mate's garrulity to scruple about cutting it short; so he briefly put before the sailor the proposal of the chief—for it amounted to a proposal—and wound up by asking his opinion as to the best course to pursue.

Mr. Bigham's opinion, tersely stated, was that he hated to give in to a nigger.

'I says, let us seem to agree, but round on the blankety niggers if we see a good chance,' he suggested joyously.

'If we promise, we must perform, Mr. Bigham,' said George gravely. 'Perhaps news of the rising will reach New Zealand before we do, and a cruiser may be sent to intercept us.'

'No chance of it. That smart chief has seen to that,' returned Bigham gloomily. 'The only vessel belonging to the island was a ketch, and the beggar sent her drifting out to sea.' Once again he expressed an extremely uncomplimentary opinion of 'niggers' and all their works and ways.

'Then there is nothing for it but to accept, if we wish to save our lives. But we must play fair,' said George.

'I can't see as we're bound to keep our word to a lot of darned niggers,' objected Mr. Bigham, with heat. 'If we get a chance to knock the brown brutes on the head, why shouldn't we take it?'

George answered the fool according to his folly.

'Can't you see, Bigham, that, as we are outnumbered by more than ten to one, we must submit?'

'But only till we get the chance to square the account,' persisted Bigham, who hailed from Bolton, and had all the native obstinacy of the Lancashire man. 'Well; I'll go and tell the men.' And he went.

The voice of the chief roused George from meditations of a somewhat mixed character. 'Have you decided, Hortoni?' he inquired, and there was a note of triumph in his tone which convinced George that he knew a great deal more English than he chose to admit.

After a moment's consideration George replied for himself. 'I give you my word that I will help to navigate the brig to Turanga, and that I will not attempt to embarrass you while I am on board. On your part, you undertake to set me free as soon as we touch land. That is our bargain; is it not?'

'And will Big Man promise, too? Will the sailors help?' asked the chief. 'Ha! here he comes. Let us hear what he has to say.'

'We agree,' the mate announced, but with a wink so portentous that George was made fully aware that the acceptance of the chief's terms covered some deep mental reservation. But he took no notice of the stupid fellow's side-hint, and, turning to their captor, said: 'It is well, O Hawk of the Mountain. We will bring the ship to land, if you will thereafter let us go free.'

'It is well,' echoed Te Karearea, flashing a glance at the mate. 'You have dealt fairly with me, Hortoni, and I am minded to be your friend. The eyes of the hawk are very keen, and he sees what is good and what is bad. So, too, I read the hearts of those upon whom my eyes are fastened.' Just then they were blazing upon Bigham with a malignity which even that dullard should have perceived. But as he regarded George, the chief's glance became milder.

'You have chosen wisely, O Hortoni!' he concluded. Then with a final ambiguity, 'I shall not forget what I have heard,' he folded his mat about his shoulders and stalked out of the deck-house.

'You also will do well to remember what you have heard, Mr. Bigham,' George said, translating Te Karearea's speech for him. 'I hope you were sincere in what you said just now,' he continued with some severity. 'We have to deal with a very clever man, and I earnestly advise you not to measure your wits against his.'

Bigham's grin widened, and he winked more portentously than before. Otherwise he made no reply.

CHAPTER V
THE GRATITUDE OF TE KAIHUIA

For the first few days the voyage was uneventful, and the Maoris, revelling in the freedom which the courage and skill of their leader had won for them, behaved like a parcel of children unexpectedly let loose from school. Te Karearea himself devoted a good deal of time to the conciliation of the young Englishman, with whom he would often engage in conversation with a charm of manner which was hard to resist. Invariably, too, he bewailed his inability to converse in the Pakeha tongue, though he admitted that he had mastered a few words which served him well enough upon unimportant occasions.

Nevertheless, one night when Bigham—who was for ever whispering among the men after dark—dismissed three of his cronies after a muttered colloquy, the dark form of the chief rose from the lifeboat, beneath which the meeting had taken place. He looked cautiously about him, and then, seeing no one but his own guards, who patrolled the deck night and day, leaped lightly down and stole away.

But George had observed him, and deliberated whether he should warn Bigham. Finally, however, he decided to wait, feeling confident that the mate would not take any important step without consulting him, in which case he would be in a better position to protest against any foolhardy venture.

The days wore on, the light winds growing lighter and lighter, until at length there fell a dead calm; the Stella floated idly upon the vast bosom of the sea, and the lively chatter of the Maoris gave way to gloomy silence, while their scarred faces scowled, and their fierce brown eyes flashed wrath at the white sailors, as if they alone were responsible for the vagaries of the weather.

One afternoon—it was the third day of the calm—as George swung drowsily in his hammock, he was aroused by a shrill scream and the patter of feet along the deck. Again the scream rang out, high and quavering, and presently was drowned by a deep-toned chant, chorussed by a hundred rich male voices which rose and fell in unison.

'They are propitiating the wind-god, I suppose,' mused George, feeling too lazy to get up and find out. 'Yesterday they threw their greenstone ornaments overboard; but it did no good. What children they are for all their strength and—Hullo! Good heavens!'

He sat suddenly upright, with the result that he pitched out of his hammock with a nasty bump; but he was up in a second, and as he raced up the forehatch, the words of the chant came clearly to his horrified ears:

'... Come, then, Te Kaihuia, old friend!
Come, O thou ancient and venerable Palm Tree!
Come, beloved uncle, and be sacrificed straightway!
The deep sea waits for thee;
For us wait the gentle, favouring winds
To bear us home. So come....'

The Maoris were grouped in a double crescent, the horns touching the starboard gangway, beside which stood Te Karearea, wearing the complacent expression of a man who generously sacrifices a most cherished possession for the good of the public. Opposite to him two big Maoris bent over a very old and withered creature, whom, with many expressions of endearment, they were encouraging to take a header into the sea.

The old man—the 'ancient Palm Tree' of the chant—was Te Kaihuia, an uncle of Te Karearea, and since the sacrifice of the greenstone ornaments had not availed to propitiate the god of winds and storms, the chief had graciously given permission for his aged relative to be thrown into the sea. Meanwhile the singers, at the top of their lusty voices, asserted the cheerful acquiescence of the victim.

But the poor old man was not willing, and his heartrending appeal for mercy so moved George that he roughly pushed his way through a group of grinning seamen, sharply chiding them for their cruel indifference, and walked straight up to the chief.

'What is this, O Te Karearea?' he demanded haughtily. 'Why do you allow your young men to maltreat old Te Kaihuia? Whatever your followers may believe, you know well enough that to murder an old man for the sake of getting a breeze is a piece of stupid cruelty.'

In his excitement he had spoken in English; but the amused gleam in the chief's eyes assured him that he had been understood, so without a pause he went on in Maori: 'Let him live, my friend, and I promise you the wind before evening.'

Te Karearea started and stared hard at George, who had, of course, spoken impulsively, and looked rather foolish when pressed for an explanation; whereupon the chief's lips curled in a cynical smile, and he made a covert sign to the men who were holding his ancient relative.

Alert to catch the signal, they swung up the old fellow and, before George could turn, flung him far out into the sea, where, with that curious instinct which seems to attract them whenever death is in the air, several sharks were already gathered, their triangular dorsal fins moving ceaselessly to and fro as they waited, expectant, for their prey.

But, even as the old man vanished over the side, George burst through the crescent and took a running jump into the sea. So swift was his action that the noise of the two bodies striking the water came to the ears of those on board as one great splash, and as the crew of the brig, now thoroughly ashamed of themselves, cheered enthusiastically, George appeared above the surface, holding the old Maori in the loop of one arm, while with the other he struck out vigorously.

Quick as thought, Te Karearea seized a rifle from the nearest armed guard and fired at a black fin which drove swiftly in the wake of the swimmer. The ball went home, and in an instant the sea was dyed red, as the rapacious sharks tore in pieces the body of their late ally.

But for this timely intervention a frightful tragedy must have been enacted; but, as it was, while the guards at a word from their chief directed a terrific fusillade at the sharks, Bigham cast a rope to George, who was hauled up not much the worse for his dive, while the air rang with the hurrahs of the crew.

The ancient gentleman was handed over the side in a very limp condition, and borne away to be dried and ironed, as it were, while George, with an ugly scowl at Te Karearea, who came up all smiles and compliments, hurried below to change his clothes.

Singularly enough, shortly after this exciting episode the smiling azure of the sea began to darken, and as the shadow crept nearer, and Neptune's white horses left their stables in the deep and galloped upon the crests of the waves, a light breeze began to tickle the cheeks of the sails and to hum among the cordage; so that presently the bo'sun's cheerful pipe shrilled along the deck, and the sailors, bounding aloft or hauling upon the sheets, soon made all snug for the run.

The amazement of the Maoris, who had overheard and jeered at George's promise to their chief, may be imagined, and the venturesome prophet's reputation was then and there established among them. Whatever he thought of the matter, Te Karearea kept his opinion to himself, and, waving aside those who would have babbled of it, wrapped himself in his mat and paced the deck in grave meditation.

When George had changed into a blue pilot-cloth suit, which had belonged to Captain Varsall, he hurried on deck to look for old Te Kaihuia, whom he found reclining upon a mat in a sunny corner.

'A narrow escape, O venerable friend!' began the young man, smiling down upon the shrivelled figure. 'You have looked through the gates of Reinga.'

The old Maori smiled back into the frank, good-tempered face, and motioning George to a mat beside him, intimated his desire to perform the hongi, or pressing together of noses, to which George submitted with a good grace and, when the ceremony was over, prepared to withdraw. But the old man begged him to remain, as he had something further to say.

With the greatest gravity Te Kaihuia drew a parcel from beneath his mat, and with trembling fingers unrolled the half-dozen layers of native cloth which formed the wrapping. Then with an air of reverence almost amounting to awe, he drew out a greenstone mere,[[1]] or club, of most perfect shape and colour, which he held up to the admiring gaze of the Englishman.

[[1]] Pronounced almost as the English word 'merry.'

'What a beautiful—what a magnificent piece of greenstone!' exclaimed George in genuine delight. Then, as Te Kaihuia regarded the weapon with a look of mingled veneration and affection: 'Is it an heirloom—the mere of your ancestors?'

'You are right, Hortoni,' replied the veteran. 'Far back in the misty past, approaching the time when the Maori first set foot in Te Ika A Maui,[[2]] this mere belonged, according to tradition, to my ancestor, Te Turi.[[3]] After him, it was handed down from father to son through many generations.'

[[2]] The north island of New Zealand. Literally, 'The Fish of Maui.'

[[3]] Maori names were frequently bestowed on account of physical or mental peculiarities, or of real or fancied resemblance to natural objects. Te Turi means The Obstinate, or Stubborn, One.

'Then your ancestor, Te Turi, was one of the earliest settlers in New Zealand?'

'He was, Hortoni, having come with Ngahue from Hawaiki.'[[4]]

[[4]] According to tradition, Ngahue was the Maori discoverer of New Zealand, arriving from a mythical island, Hawaiki.

George took up the club and examined it. He had seen many a piece of greenstone before, both in the rough and fashioned into ornaments and weapons; but never had he seen anything so beautiful as this mere. Its shape was perfect, and not only was the rich green mineral nearly as transparent as glass, but all through its substance ran the most exquisite veining and traceries, resembling fern-fronds, flowers, miniature trees, and even birds and fishes. 'It is a most beautiful object,' he said, handing it back. 'Your ancestor must have had wonderful pride in his workmanship.'

Te Kaihuia cast an apprehensive glance around; then whispered almost inaudibly: 'The mere was bestowed upon Te Turi. He did not make it.'

'Well, who gave it to him?' inquired George, amused at the goblin-like aspect of the old creature.

With another timid look above and around, Te Kaihuia whispered again with thrilling emphasis: 'It was made by Tumatauenga, the god of war, and he bestowed it upon Te Turi.'

'Ah! then I am not surprised you set such store by it,' said George, careful to suppress the smile which would have hurt the old man's feelings. 'Such a beautiful piece of work deserves to have a romantic history.'

But he was destined to be surprised after all, for the aged Maori, balancing the club in his worn hands, said impressively: 'You, too, must set great store by it, Hortoni, for it is the gift of a god, and has marvellous powers. O brave young friend, who thought the remnant of an old man's life worth the risk of your own, stretch forth your hand and receive this gift from me. Treasure it, my son, for it is yours.'

'Mine!' echoed George, supremely astonished. 'Mine! Oh no, Te Kaihuia, this must not be. I will not take so valuable an heirloom from you.'

'It is mine to give,' persisted the hoary chief. 'Descendants I have none. There is but my sister's son, Te Karearea, and rather than that he should inherit it, I would fling it into the sea. And this I swear I will do, Hortoni, if you take not the mere as a gift.' He gently pressed the club upon George, who took it with the greatest reluctance.

'Hearken, Hortoni,' the old man went on. 'There is much virtue in this mere, and some day, perhaps ere long, you shall rejoice that it is yours. Take it, my son, and with it an old man's blessing for that your stout heart and strong arm succoured him in his extremity.'

The superstitious veneration in which the Maoris held the greenstone, and their devotion to family relics, were well known to George; but when he realised that the old chief was sincere in his intention to destroy the heirloom rather than allow it to pass into other hands than his own, he made suitable acknowledgments, and thrust the beautiful weapon into that division of his belt which had once contained his revolver.

His point gained, old Te Kaihuia seemed highly delighted, and rubbed his lean hands together, grinning and chattering to himself. Finally he calmed down, and with a sly glance at George, said coaxingly: 'If you are not tired of an old man's tale, Hortoni, perhaps you would like to hear the history of the mere which has now become your own.'

'I should, indeed,' answered George, who had been wondering whether he might ask this very favour without giving offence or intruding upon family secrets.

Te Kaihuia looked pleased, settled himself upon his mats, coughed once or twice after the manner of an orator about to address an audience, and then, after a false start or two, unfolded to the interested listener the following singular history.

CHAPTER VI
THE STORY OF THE GREENSTONE MERE

Te Turi, my ancestor, one day called to him his two friends, Te Weri, the Centipede, and Te Waerau, the Crab, whom he loved best after Ngahue, and taking a sailing canoe, with three men to row upon windless days, set out from Te Ika A Maui on a course to the south.

And when they had sailed for many days, they came to the mouth of a river, and there they ate food and landed.

And as they stepped ashore, Te Turi chanted a prayer of propitiation to the Spirit of the Land, and they six prayed together and humiliated themselves. And afterwards, looking about them, they saw that the land was very fair; for the pohutukaua trees[[1]] and the ratas[[1]] were ablaze with red blossoms, and the white flowers of the puawananga[[2]] were shining like stars in the deep green of lofty boughs. And the blue sky smiled down upon them, and the warm sun of morning stirred their blood, and the sweet scents of the forest beguiled their senses, so that with one accord they cried aloud, 'Behold! The new land which the gods have given us is very good.'

[[1]] The pohutukaua and rata trees belong to the myrtle order.

[[2]] The puawananga is a variety of clematis with large, star-like white blossoms. In the flowering season the effect of these white stars amid the dark metallic green of the overhead foliage is most beautiful.

But of a sudden the forest grew denser, till at last they saw neither sun nor moon, nor could they find food to eat or water to drink—not even fern-roots or kanini berries, which might have stayed the terrible pangs of hunger.

So then the five began to blame Te Turi that he had brought them out of a land of plenty into this wilderness, and Te Turi, being sorry for them, bade them rest while he went on to seek deliverance.

So Te Turi walked alone, and, as he walked, it grew so cold that he drew his mat of kiwi[[3]] feathers close about him. Yet still was he cold as death, and at last, crying to the gods to show him a way whereby his friends and the three men might be saved, he fell prone upon the ground.

[[3]] The apteryx, a curious, small, wingless bird.

Now the blackness of night was around him, though it was yet full day; but, though he feared the darkness, he feared more for his companions lest they should die of cold and hunger and thirst. 'For then,' said he, 'the blame shall be mine, for I it was who brought them to this pass.' Wherefore he prayed for his friends more than for himself.

But presently he rose and made a fire of sticks to warm his blood. But, though the fire burned, neither did it warm him nor give any light beyond itself. Wherefore Te Turi was sure that the gods were angry, and he prayed that he might propitiate them by the sacrifice of the best thing he had, though he himself should die for want of it.

So he laid his beautiful mat of feathers upon the fire, which greedily devoured it, and then he scattered the ashes to the four quarters of the earth and chanted a prayer to ATUA.[[4]]

[[4]] The gods collectively, or Fate.

Then lo, a marvel! For of a sudden Te Turi grew warm and the dark forest fell away, and before him opened a glade, rich in flowers and fruit, and in the midst of it a stream of water, crystal pure.

Then, filled with joy, Te Turi stretched out his hand, for he was very hungry. Yet even in that moment he remembered his friends and the men, and, having first gathered fruit and filled a gourd with water for them, he ate and drank his fill.

And now, being strengthened in spirit and in body, Te Turi bowed his head and gave thanks to ATUA and prayed to his ancestors.

And, as he lifted his head, lo, before him was a mat of kiwi feathers, larger and more beautiful than he had ever seen, and very soft and perfect, as a mat sent from the gods ought to be. For Te Turi knew that the gods had sent him the mat because he had thought of his friends before himself. So, marvelling, he put it on and turned to rejoin his companions.

But a voice cried 'Stay!' and Te Turi, seeing no one, feared, and turned again.

And the voice was dull and muffled, as though it came from the bowels of the earth, and it said: 'O Te Turi, I am HAUMIATIKITIKI, god and father of men and of the foods which men gather and eat. For all thy life abundance of such food shall be thine. Behold, I have spoken!'

Then Te Turi gave thanks and turned to go. But another voice cried 'Stay!' and he remained.

And the voice came from the surface of the ground and from the tree-tops, and it said: 'O Te Turi, I am RONGOMATANE, god and father of men and of the foods which men prepare for themselves. For all thy life abundance of such food shall be thine. Behold, I have spoken!'

And again Te Turi gave thanks and turned to go. But a third voice cried 'Stay!' and, marvelling, he stayed.

And the voice was like to the murmur of waving boughs, the humming of bees, and the sweet singing of birds, and it said: 'O Te Turi, I am TANE MAHUTA, god of the forests and the birds. The trees shall be thine for thy dwellings, and the hardest trees for canoes and spears and clubs; and the birds shall be thine for food and dress as long as thou livest. Behold, I have spoken!'

And once more Te Turi gave thanks and turned to go. But a fourth voice cried 'Stay!' and with wonder in his heart he stood still.

And the voice was like the leaping of fish and the croaking of frogs, and it said: 'O Te Turi, I am TANGAROA, god of fish and reptiles. All through thy life thou shalt have fish to eat and sharks' teeth for ornament, and whalebone and whales' ribs for thy weapons. And the little lizards shall not affright thee, nor the great Taniwha[[5]] harm thee. Behold, I have spoken!'

[[5]] A mythical monster, presumed to be a saurian, inhabiting the sea or vast forests, and regarded with deepest awe by Maoris.

And again Te Turi gave thanks and essayed to go. But a fifth voice cried 'Stay!' and, filled with awe, he halted where he was.

And the voice was like the roaring of a mighty wind, and the sound of trees falling in the bush, of rain and hail beating upon the hard ground, and thunder rolling among the caverns of the clouds upon the mountains. And it said: 'O Te Turi, I am TAWHIRI-MA-TEA, god of the winds and storms, and whether thou walkest upon dry land or sailest upon the bosom of the deep waters, harm shall be far from thee. Behold, I have spoken!'